December 1, 1086, 10:00 p.m.
Alina's home, Churvik Village, northeastern Ursus frozen tundra
Exhausted, Talulah slumped across the brick bed, every fiber of her being radiating weariness.
Alina, meanwhile, had turned away to face the wall, wrapped tightly in her quilt, breathing in an even rhythm.
Dull-witted as Talulah might sometimes be, she could easily guess what had happened.
Rolling over, she slid a hand around Alina's waist:
"What's wrong? Are you upset with Ivan?"
Alina gave no reply.
Talulah's hand crept restlessly down to Alina's lower stomach. The blood of the Red Dragon coursed through her veins, plunging the entire room into a warm, ambiguous heat.
Pressing close to Alina's small fawn ears, she breathed like drifting orchids:
"Political consultation, military democracy—both are crucial methods for igniting everyone's subjective initiative. What you said has its merits, but relatively speaking, it still leans somewhat to the right. If we keep standing still, the only consequence will be self-imposed isolation. Only by taking a bold step forward can we fight for our shared ideals."
Alina merely pulled her quilt higher and higher, yet Talulah could feel the undeniable heat radiating from Alina's body.
Trying to avoid her gaze, the little fawn's ears were already twitching restlessly in Talulah's grip, and both her cheeks flushed bright red, looking precisely like a ripe apple.
She felt the tingling sensation by her ear cascade instantly down her spine through her whole body, making her writhe helplessly while her heart throbbed with a restless itch.
Pillow talk—fascinating, isn't it?
Her brain felt completely melted like chocolate, taking a long time to congeal once more amidst this ambiguous atmosphere.
Only then did she push Talulah's hand away, flip over to pin Talulah beneath her, and plant her small hands restlessly on Talulah's face.
The temperature in the room climbed even higher.
A smile played at the corners of Alina's lips, and the tenderness in her eyes was like water, yet it reflected a hint of vexation.
Yet Talulah's evasive gaze and the pink flush spreading across her cheeks only served to further provoke Alina's heart.
Fluctuations of Originium Arts quietly diffused throughout the tiny rural earthen cottage.
"Did you really think I'm just some village girl who understands nothing? Of course I know what you people want. I may not understand all your complex turns and twists, but that doesn't mean I can't learn."
Talulah's thoughts, however, had long since flown ten thousand miles away.
Seeing this, Alina was struck by a mischievous impulse.
Using Originium Arts in reverse could yield quite abundant rewards, after all!
Draping her leg across Talulah's body, she pressed almost flush against her.
Like a natural hand warmer, she looked at Talulah with a mix of shyness and even expectation, making Talulah grow flustered and indignant in response.
Their breaths mingled and puffed against each other, tickling their chests and faces, leaving their hearts itching as well.
What to do when it itches? Scratch the itch!
"Alina, what are you doing..."
The fawn's hands went straight to the Red Dragon's face, kneading her back and forth as if she were a lump of plasticine, driving Talulah to an even greater pitch of excitement.
Naturally, the small brick bed could not withstand the two of them tossing and turning. Using raw force, Talulah shoved Alina aside, then flushed red as she pushed her right back down, pressing her face close against Alina's ear:
"You little fawn, you really are naughty..."
"Ngh..."
Fragrance billowed through the entire room, rushing eagerly into Talulah's nasal passages.
Perhaps the meeting just now had been too exhausting, or perhaps pondering problems had left her brain in urgent need of rest, or perhaps the beauty beneath her brought a sense of blissful security—breathing in this fragrance amidst Alina's innate Originium Arts aura, Talulah's eyelids grew heavy, and she simply lay back down, drifting straight off to sleep.
Before long, however, she wrapped herself entirely around Alina like an octopus.
As for our little fawn, she clutched her personal hand warmer, curled up in Talulah's embrace, and fell asleep right beside her.
…………
Compared to the "surprise raid" over here, preparations for another raid on the other side were proceeding in full swing.
The Gendarmerie assault team consisted of fifty members divided into five combat squads. Donning white cloaks, they wielded crossbows and hunting bows, with daggers reversed in the sheaths at their waist.
On their feet were skis, in their hands a pair of ski poles, and around their waists were coiled loops of homemade grappling hooks along with several homemade wooden-handled Originium grenades.
Sergei was among their ranks as well.
He was holding a brief huddle with the four other combat squad leaders:
"Intelligence shows the enemy garrison is about a hundred strong, equipped with light and heavy weapons, and even a BTR60 armored personnel carrier. We lack the conditions to scout the interior map, but I've already figured out the exterior terrain."
Sergei gestured across the map.
This was a mine constructed in the typical style of an Ursus military camp. To control the infected forced laborers within, they had spared no expense in building five-meter-high solid walls and stringing up electric fences.
The interior watchtowers and the single remaining front gate made a frontal assault virtually impossible, so their choice was to scale the walls and cut the wires.
"This is their exterior patrol route. They change guard every two hours like clockwork, and the searchlights overhead operate automatically, sweeping back and forth every twenty seconds. Is that clear?"
"Clear."
Holding a carbon stick, Sergei drew a dark line across the map.
"Our battle plan is as follows: Squad One, led by me, will strike first, keeping our movements as concealed as possible. Once we break in, we'll swiftly eliminate the sentries. Squad Two, led by Ivan, will infiltrate in disguise while we locate the enemy warehouse and set a fire. Once the enemy falls into disarray, the rest will assault the front gate together to force it open. Leader Talulah's support force will ensure we have a way in and a way out, and they can also join the battle to rescue our compatriots."
Sergei swept his gaze around the circle, greeted by looks of affirmation and approval.
"Squad Five, guard the perimeter. The moment you spot any enemy reinforcements or unusual movements, notify us immediately and try to alert the main force. You are the most crucial supporting unit; the lives of all fifty of us rest in your hands. Hold your ground at all costs."
Francis, the leader of Squad Five and a Sankta, met Sergei's solemn gaze and nodded heavily.
The matte-treated bayonet on the AK-74 assault rifle in his hands gleamed with a dull gray near the campfire.
"We are about thirty kilometers away from that mine. Gliding over will take roughly twenty minutes—or twenty-three minutes and fifty-one seconds, personally speaking."
Sergei glanced at the tactical compass on his wrist.
Beside a half-burnt old photograph, a faithfully ticking clock pointed to 10:22.
"It's still early. Everyone go catch some sleep now, but I must see you right here at two-thirty in the morning."
"Yes."
Staring at the light gleaming off the snow, Sergei casually scooped up a handful of snow and tossed it over the campfire, extinguishing the flames instantly.
His sapphire eyes flashed a dangerous red in the snow for a fraction of a second.
…………
Meanwhile, elsewhere.
December 1, 1086, 9:39 p.m.
Temporary camp of the Infected Guerrillas, Shoshatyolyov domain, northeastern Ursus frozen tundra
Patriot simply could not take his precious daughter anymore.
The snow rabbit hopped about everywhere, pestering and harassing him day in and day out, clamoring for a special operations squad of her very own while daydreaming endlessly about her heroic posture on the battlefield.
He probably never expected that this adopted rabbit, who usually acted ice-cold in both daily life and temperament, could truly become as nimble and restless as a hare once she threw a tantrum.
Fairness aside, putting himself in her shoes, he understood Yelena's demands all too well: she did not want to hole up in the rear forever as a nominal logistics commander; she wanted to use her own strength to protect everyone, to protect more people and spare them from suffering the kind of misery she had endured.
Yet was she truly ready to accept all of this?
The crimson pupils beneath Patriot's skull flickered, tearing through the heavy Ursus night. Beneath his rugged exterior lay a delicate heart and a nimble mind.
Concealed beneath his hard armor and tower shield was a heart full of tiny pores, yet stubborn to a fault in certain matters.
Personally speaking, he clearly did not want to experience tragedy a second time. Moreover, while the girl's talent for Originium Arts was undeniably strong, the price was that her body grew as cold as frost due to Oripathy.
Furthermore, the casters in the Guerrillas were either scouts specializing in concealment, technicians navigating structural pathways, artillerymen handling Originium Arts necessary for artillery calibration, communications personnel managing radio transmissions, or simply wild-style independent casters.
Casters lacking systematic training and casting units easily relied on themselves as the casting unit, drastically accelerating the progression of their Oripathy and leading to rapid deterioration.
While casters were undeniably precious, he did not want Yelena to take such risks again.
Yet as a warrior, he knew all too well how massive a role a combat caster of this caliber could play on the battlefield.
For a warrior, stepping onto the battlefield meant either killing the enemy or being killed by them.
Having fought their way from the Northwest to the Northeast, both of them had grown entirely accustomed to death and sacrifice.
Precisely because of this, Yelena—young though she still was (in Patriot's eyes)—seemed far more mature than her years.
Both sides understood this truth.
And this was also the first time Yelena had ever displayed such emotions before Bulstrode.
"Child, I do not wish to see you perish on the battlefield..."
"Then you'd rather watch the other Guerrilla warriors perish on and off the battlefield? Do you think a caster like me is utterly useless, then?"
His deep, magnetic voice was instantly cut off by a cold, clear tone.
Even the eloquent Patriot was forced into silence.
He suddenly realized that for the past few days, he had been agonizing over this for a long time.
He actually could not tell whether this was love or selfishness.
"Besides, you were the one who saved me; I should at least do something for you, shouldn't I? Just giving me the empty title of logistics commander leaves me bored out of my mind day after day! Let me tell you, I've thought it all through—the name of this squad will be called 'Snowdemon Squad'..."
"......As you wish."
"Hooray!"
Perhaps tired of listening, or perhaps having figured it all out, Bulstrode simply relented.
Green hills are buried everywhere with loyal bones; why must one return wrapped in a horse's hide?
The bloodline of the Kazdel struggle that had spanned millions of years across this land would eventually be passed down. The day would come when he fell, and the Shield of the Infected could likewise not protect all infected and suffering people forever.
If he fell, someone else had to stand up and keep walking down this path.
He could not protect Yelena for the rest of his life, just as he could not save-
This land always went against mortal wishes.
And Yelena bounced out of Patriot's tent in high spirits.
"......"
My daughter, how long has it been since she was this lively?
She was still a child at heart, after all; even the most elite Columbia Youth Corps soldiers could not completely grind away the humanity deep within their souls.
Subconsciously, Bulstrode reached for his throat.
The foreign object sensation was growing increasingly intense. Even when he swallowed his saliva, a wave of itching would rise from his windpipe.
He was a victim of Oripathy.
He had never forgotten that fact.
"Report."
"Enter."
A Guerrilla soldier lifted the flap of the tent and stepped inside.
He brought with him a heavy wave of cold air that sent the flame of the kerosene lamp flickering wildly.
Swinging the AKM assault rifle on his shoulder behind his back, he swiftly drew a rolled-up piece of paper from his sleeve.
The paper was brand-new, standing in stark contrast to the worn-out weapons and equipment of the entire Guerrilla force.
Patriot's attention, however, was clearly not on the paper itself, but on the map the soldier carried.
"Landon Simon, how is the surveying and mapping work going?"
"Done."
The Lupo didn't even bother to take off his white ghillie suit. Merely licking his dry, cracked lips, he swiftly unrolled the map before the towering Wendigo.
It was a map drawn with various symbols—highly professional and remarkably effective.
A somewhat antiquated encryption method used in the Ursus military had been modified by Patriot into a novel and practical cipher.
"Here is us, fifty kilometers away; here is the mine. Our elites can reach it in half an hour at the fastest."
He pointed to the interior.
"A five-meter-high wall, electric fence, watchtower, BTR-60, barracks, warehouse, infected camp, mine entrance, around two hundred and fifty people. They have light and heavy firepower, even grenade launchers and mortars. These people are all elites, and sneaking in won't be easy. The batch of cargo we've been tracking all this time is very likely produced right here. After all, this place connects to a massive Originium vein."
"Good work. Call the others in for a meeting; the thermos is over there."
"Yes."
Landon Simon turned and left.
His white figure vanished swiftly into the snow, as if he had never been there at all, yet as if his presence permeated the entire snowy landscape.
Patriot stared at the map. His left hand instinctively brushed against his neck, while his right hand picked up a red pencil, holding a blue pencil tucked between his fingers as he began sketching on the map.
Before long, the entire map was crisscrossed with interlocking red and blue lines.
He raised his head once more to look at the map before him.
"Northeastern Ursus Regional Map".
An old map from 1079, many of its markings long outdated, meaning a great deal of the terrain had been filled in by the Guerrilla scouting soldiers.
And his gaze locked firmly onto a seemingly desolate spot:
The Koschei domain.
Old Black Snake... what is it you are trying to do this time?